Short Story on Domestic Violence – Sandcastle and The Sea of Hope
Photo credit: koimedia from morguefile.com
Dying wasn’t the only option; but it was easier. Who said death is adventurous? No, death is dreary; death is effortless. That was the reason why I chose death; like it’s the most welcoming lover, waiting to put me out of my misery.
I was completely tired as I walked along the grainy sand of my favorite place; my body was bent completely, looking like a half broken twig. The beach sand was warm yet soothing as they seeped through my finger gaps, caressing, playing; yet they failed to calm my frayed nerves, like every other time they did. The last drop of energy I had conserved for this moment was utterly drained as I slumped in a heap. My body fell down with a soft thud and the warm arms of beach sand embraced me warmly, its touch gentle as that of a mother’s.
The beach was filled with buzzing mob; but no one noticed the lone girl, me, sitting alone like she had lost her life. Not yet. I was tempted to go and welcome death now, but it was dangerous; someone would notice me and they would save me. I didn’t need saving; I was already past that. This moment was a little peaceful, because I was thinking about the sweet silence after death.
I always loved beach; my weekends were spent in the sunny place filled with the aroma of salt,fish and summer, playing with sand and water. The sea and the shore were my two best-friends. My mom used to call me ‘The sea princess.’ It wasn’t appropriate. I was more a ‘Sea Crazed Girl.’ My passion for the ocean wasn’t shallow; it was full-blown. I loved sea without a limit. Sun or rain, storm or calm, I loved the shelter the blue sea and sandy shore offered me.
When people who loved beaches stop liking it after Tsunami, I never detested the sea for a moment. I knew it had its reasons. You may think it was because I hadn’t lost anyone close to my heart to the sea. No; because I did: My Appa, my role model.
I lost the man who had carried me on his shoulder as he walked along the sandy shore, but still, I believe my father was safe there in the other side of the ocean, enjoying the world inside the water. I envied him for that; the sea chose him and not me. The sea, my second mother, loved my father more than me to take him away and leave me alone, even though I was with him that day the gigantic waves emerged out with a festive roar. I was fixated on the magnificence of the waves; and when everything drained with a echoeing silence, I remained there, my clothes heavy with water and tears of joy. The tears of sorrow came way later, when I realized my dad was gone with the sea; I missed my father, but I never hated the sea for his demise.
I adored the sea; to me it was an endless source of life; an eternal supply of compassion. It was the same reason I chose the sea to end my life. I knew the sea would take care of me after my death. It was a greatly unsubstantiated hypothesis, but my belief in sea was unshakable after all these years. It was a kernel put inside my heart when I was young and the seed grew into an imposing tree of love and affection; for the blue body of water, which remains throughout the years. It was the only promose of consistency; only thing I could depend on, forever, if I have that much time.
As I looked down on the little specks of sand, I saw my fingers were deftly removing the little particles and was raising a castle; sandcastle had always been my obsession. My finger worked like a trained architect, nimble, not even hesitating for a moment; it had mind of its own.
My fingers crowded the morsel of wet sand to hoist them, creating bends and corners with expert skill. When the magnificent castle arose in the empty space where only air existed, my lips pulled upward in a content smile; the smile that stayed a little longer. Now there were children around me, admiring, applauding my art. I smiled up and continued erecting another smaller tomb next to the bigger one.
That was when the burly wind arrived with vengeance; it was so sudden, but so very strong. The sea whinnied and wailed, sounding as though it was mourning angrily. The wind chased around the empty wrappers and grains of sand, teasing my hair, and testing the strength of my fortress. I waited for the castle to collapse, but it stood there rigidly and all around it the small grains of sand danced and twirled like trained ballerinas. My eyes were fixated on the sandcastle, waiting for it to crumple at the end; to give up, finally. But it never did. It was a miracle of some sort; a sign of optimism.
It gave me hope; the strength to withstand, against the greater strength.
I imagined myself as the castle; my husband as the raging wind. He was waiting for me to break down, and in the end, unlike the sand, I did. He won. He might be celebrating my ruin right now; but I hated to give up my victory, so easily.
He might have won the war, but I want to win this battle. I would not sleep until he was behind the thick bars, waiting for his meals in the queue; he deserved it; no one deserved it more than him.
He killed my confidence; my self-esteem; my uniqueness; and my heart; I forgave him. He killed my unborn child too and that was the final straw; the patience I practiced turned into wild, wretched fury. District court did let him go with petty sum of money as the fine and a month of imprisonment for abusing me, which he easily escaped. But I wasn’t fighting for my pains; I was fighting for my child’s and I would seek the veiled mother of law for justice.
I stood up, dusted my back with new vigor thrumming along my tired nerve ends and walked away; gently murmuring my ‘thanks’ to the sandcastle still standing there proudly like a king and to the silent sea wordlessly saying ‘goodbye’ to me.
The Sea, my mother saved me once again, gave me hope- with the sandcastle.
** THE BEGINNING OF HER WAR**
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